


Miles to Go Before I Sleep

by Ashtony



Category: Frankenstein & Related Fandoms, Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Adam's relationship with the reader isn't the abusive one dw, And is kind of snarky and sometimes a dick, Angst, But it's difficult romance, Depression, F/M, Fluff, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gender-neutral Reader, Gore, I MEAN TECHNICALLY, Illness, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Isolation, Just so you can't say I didn't warn you, Like the reader character really hates the snow, Loneliness, Maligning the tundra, Not just Adam, Romance, Sickfic, So much angst, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Touch-Starved, Trauma, but then more angst, eventually, for everyone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26327716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashtony/pseuds/Ashtony
Summary: After failing his suicide attempt, Frankenstein's Creature makes his way back to the mainland to try again only to become too ill to attempt again.  The reader finds him and takes him in.
Relationships: Frankenstein's Creature/Original Character(s), Frankenstein's Creature/You
Comments: 17
Kudos: 118





	1. Reader (I)

**Author's Note:**

> Just a heads up, this isn't gonna be love at first sight and both parties are going to need time to work through things like "being instinctively terrified by the incredibly intimidating person who now lives in your house" and "years of trauma regarding being treated poorly by literally everyone."

The man stumbled out of the sea at about 2:45 PM in the evening. Though it wasn’t that late in the day, you couldn’t help but think of it as the evening. The sun never made it far up into autumn sky when you were this far north. You were alerted to the stranger’s presence by a thump that was so muffled by the snowy landscape that you barely noticed it at all. You let out a huff of frustration, put down the blanket you were crocheting, pulled on your parka, and went to investigate after taking a moment to remove the wedding band from your right hand.

The wind lashed at your face as it whipped up snow that your view. The landscape was a freezing hell, the snow hardly broken past the paths you routinely followed heading either towards the forest or the village. Normally in such horrid conditions the whole of it would seem to all blur together. However, the dark mass which had collapsed just beyond the shoreline was an unmistakable contrast to the colors of the arctic landscape.

You trudged over to him, asking if he was okay in your accented Danish. No response. He lay sprawled on his stomach, face obscured by the drifting snow and a great hood. He was dressed in what once was probably appropriate clothing for the weather. Now the whole of the back of his thick coat was burned straight to hell, and his back along with it. What you could see of the non-blistered skin had the waxy color of a corpse. You groan. He clearly had been dead a while – who in heaven’s name had dropped him here? He certainly hadn’t been there this morning, so presumably this was what you had heard. You look around to see if there was anything else around that could have possibly made the noise. There didn’t seem to be. Everything was as you had left it.

You closed your eyes and let out a groan. You were going to have to bury him on your own; Lord knew there was no point trying to send for help with it. Better still, it had been more than a month since the ground had frozen for the winter and the man had to be at least eight feet tall. You rubbed at your temples and tried to prepare yourself for the unutterably thankless task of trying to give this poor man a semblance of a decent burial.

Well, it was already too late in the piss-poor excuse for a day that they had up here, so there wasn’t a chance of getting him in the ground before tomorrow. However, you thought you could probably handle getting him away from the sea and up towards a better location for a grave. You headed to your shed; you were pretty sure there had to be something that you could use to move him in here. Lo and behold, you found a rusted wheelbarrow. That would have to work, or else you would have to break ground on the stony shore. Moving eight feet of dead weight sounded slightly less miserable, though if you were honest with yourself you knew it was probably a negligible difference. _Why, oh why had he picked such an_ inconvenient _way to drop dead_ , you began to wonder before cutting yourself off with horror at your train of thought.

You forced the thrice-damned thing through the piles of snow to the beach and stopped short as soon as you got there. You could see a hollowing of the small snowdrift by where you assumed his face was. His breath had been slowly melting it. Shit, he wasn’t dead. Your relief was quickly drowned out by the knowledge that if he was so badly burned and still unmoving, he was probably on his way out. Especially in this weather.

“Sir, are you awake? I need to get you inside if I’m going to help tend to your wounds,” you say. He moaned and the hood shifted as if he were trying to bury his head in the snow. Well, it looked like you weren’t likely to get much help from him. You assessed the situation. He was prone on the ground and badly burned. There was no obvious way to get him up without aggravating his wounds, but hopefully he could help you out some if he was conscious. You moved over to the side of him wasn’t _as_ badly burned and try to gently raise his arm so you can support him with your shoulder. Your hand barely brushed up against him before his whole body flinched away.

Speaking in the most soothing voice you could possibly muster, you tried again to get him to respond. “Sir, either you need to stand up on your own or I am going to have to get you into the house myself. If you stay out here in this weather, you’ll freeze to death.” He murmured something incomprehensible; as far as you could tell it wasn’t another language. It sounded more like delirious mumbling. Maybe his burns were infected and he was running a fever. You gave up on trying to reason with him and took his arm as gently as you could without your grip being too weak to hold onto him. He flinched again, but not so hard that your hand was knocked free. 

You paused for a moment, partially trying to let him realize you weren’t going to hurt him but also trying to figure out what you’d do if he came up swinging. He was much larger than you. While you couldn’t see quite how strong he was under the thick clothing, you were pretty sure you didn’t want to find out the hard way. After a moment of watching him, you realized he probably wasn’t going to do anything and started trying to gently – _gently_ – lift his arm around your shoulder. His entire body seized up, but he allowed it. 

You began to slowly try to pull him to his feet, and after a moment he seemed to realize what you were trying to do. He leaned on you heavily and you grunted trying to support him. He pulled himself to his feet at what seemed to be great difficulty. You couldn’t really tell, though. The both of you were facing the same way, and he was entirely too tall for you to see his face from your angle.

“Alright, are you going to be able to walk, or am I going to have to haul you up there in the wheelbarrow?” you ask, knowing that it was pointless. He didn’t understand you. You decided to try to pull him along and if he looked like he was going to collapse immediately you were going to make damned sure he did it onto the wheelbarrow.

You started taking small steps and he began to plod after you. While he was leaning heavily onto you for support, he didn’t seem like he was about to faint again just yet. _Excellent, that’s a blessed relief,_ you thought to yourself. The both of you slowly made your way back up to your house, him groaning from pain and you from the exertion of mostly carrying this giant of a man.

You maneuvered him into your house, but you could feel his strength flagging. Your luck ran out on the threshold of what was now, apparently, your guest room. He began to slump, and you found yourself supporting his full weight. Letting out a multilingual string of swear words you did your utmost to keep him slung across your shoulders and dragged him bodily to the bed. You barely managed it – good Lord he was big – but you managed to all but drop him down onto the bed. It was then that you screamed.

His face was revealed for the first time since you saw him, and it was unlike anything you had ever seen. His sallow skin was as thin as onion paper, and you could trace the veins on his face. Some of the larger ones slightly pulsed in time to the pumping of his heart. His complexion was a waxy sort that you had only ever seen on the dead. Great scars ran up and down his face, dividing it into three parts. The sutures had long since been removed, but the holes where they had been inserted left small ancillary scars forming dotted lines on either side of the main ones. Many of the dots appeared warped as when a seam is pulled too tightly and the fabric puckers around the thread. One of the larger panels of his face was a slightly different skin tone from the rest, and another seemed more aged than the others. The seam dividing these ran over his lips, and it slightly deformed the upper one pulling it slightly upwards to form a permanent sneer.

You backed out of the room and shut the door behind you. You started to pace around the room like a caged animal wondering just what it was that you had brought into your home. You could hardly believe he was human given his size and appearance, but neither could you think of what else he could be. You had long since stopped believing in the fey or any other superstitions, and if demons came up from Hell you were quite sure that they could disguise themselves better than _that_. You weren’t sure what the hell you had trustingly invited in.

Your panic was interrupted by another faint moan of pain from the room. You forced yourself to calm down enough to think rationally. Whatever this man was, first and foremost he was _hurt_. Very badly so. If he was some kind of horrifying monster, he was in no shape to attack you. If he was human, however…. You took some deep breaths. You couldn’t throw him out in the cold. It would be unconscionable. If he awoke and turned out to be some kind of unthinking beast you could reevaluate, but for now you felt morally bound to swallow your fear and treat his wounds.

Pressing your lips into a thin line, you turned around and opened the door.


	2. The Creature (I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to Suicide and Life-Threatening Behavior, Vol. 25 Issue 3 suicide by setting oneself on fire has a 24% failure rate, takes on average 57 minutes, and on a scale of 1-100 ranks a 95 in agony.

When the Creature awoke, he did not leave his dreams of Hell so much as introduce rational thought to them. He could still feel the flames licking his body, but he now understood that they were burns from his attempt to take his life. Not that that thought gave him much comfort; he still didn’t plan to live much longer. He just knew that self-immolation, however fitting, was not something he could bear to try again.

Weeks ago, when he had reached the very top of the world, he had taken the planks from his and Victor’s dogsleds and arranged them as best he could into a pyre built around his creator’s remains. He took everything that could burn and added them to the pile; Frankenstein’s possessions stayed at the bottom with their owner and his were placed at the top where he would lie. He left out only Frankenstein’s journal. He struck a match and watched the flames slowly begin to work their way up the structure. Once the fire begun to roar in earnest, he tossed the journal on top. He had the right to keep that with him.

Once he saw to that the flames would definitely take the book, he turned away from the fire. It was too difficult to look at. He slowly edged himself backwards toward the flame while keeping his eyes fixed only on the wispy clouds above. He took one last look at the uncaring heavens and steeled himself. He closed his eyes and propelled himself backwards into the inferno.

Upon contact with the pyre, his body heaved itself away entirely on instinct. Every muscle in his body contracted in one uniform and unwelcome motion. While he may not have been entirely human, the Creature still had the instincts brought by millennia of human evolution. The same reaction that caused him to pull his hand from a flame so long ago worked again and ended his attempt to follow Victor. He lay panting on the ground for a moment, cursing his fortune, before he began to process the pain. With a scream, he felt the worst pain of his life radiate through his entire being. He rolled himself into the snow, which did little more than take the edge off.

The Creature writhed in pain for some time. He knew that the only way to end the suffering was to throw himself into the flames once more. However, if his body was going to betray him that would probably take several tries. Every time would be an increasingly agonizing repetition of the first. He lay on the ground trying to regain the courage to take his life, but eventually the fire burned itself out without him making another attempt. When darkness fell, he wrapped himself in what few rags were spared by the fire and wept. That night, and every night for the weeks that followed, he dreamt of hellfire.

When he woke the next morning in agony with no plan and no hope, the Creature considered lying there until he froze to death. It wasn’t ideal, but it would probably do the job. However, over the course of a few hours he realized that he’d rather go quickly so as not to die from _boredom_. His body, while not impervious to the cold, was hardy enough that it would not take him quickly. The idea of stripping his insulated clothing off to hasten his death seemed impossible given that he could barely move his arms without crying out. He laughed painfully; it all seemed ironic in a way he couldn’t place. After concluding that he really would not die here, he pulled himself slowly to his feet and picked a direction. From where he was standing, they all led south.

He walked for a very long time. He had no food, but he could survive on less than a human and had had good luck keeping himself fed in the previous months. He had a lot of time to think, but he tried to keep his thoughts from wandering too much. Every fond memory had soured over the course of his short life. He just tried to keep putting one foot in front of the other until he could find some place with trees. The Creature had decided to hang himself; he felt like that had much better odds of succeeding despite any involuntary motions his body may make.

When he had gone considerably far south, he slowly came to the realization that something had gone wrong. His wounds were not healing as he had expected them to. They had steadily been improving for some time – albeit slowly – but now they had begun to decline again. The day after he noticed this, he awoke feeling very feverish and his entire body ached as if bruised. One evening he painfully reached back to try to inspect his wounds, and his hand came away with what must have been pus. He supposed that this was like to have a wound get infected. He kept walking.

His memories became more and more unreliable when recalling the time that followed. There were days that in retrospect he realized he could not account for. He felt himself becoming more and more ill. His hunger began to feel intolerable. He fainted more than once. There were a few times he got turned around and only noticed after an hour that the sun should never shine directly into his eyes when walking south. By the time he climbed off of the sheet of ice and onto the frozen shore, he was barely aware of his surroundings. From there his memories became a chaotic jumble of sensations. Someone touching his arm. Someone talking in a language he either did not speak or was too ill to understand. Falling onto something soft. And, of course, he remembers the unfathomable pain across his back and shoulders.

When he regained his senses, he was alone. He still felt like he was on fire, but the fever seemed to have lessened. He was somewhat less sore as well. He opened his eyes and looked around, but he struggled to believe that he wasn’t still dreaming. He was in a house – how had he gotten in? He bolted upright, though he let out a small cry of pain, and saw that he was lying on a bed. He was covered in thick woolen blankets that slid down to reveal that his wounds had been bandaged. Having sat up so quickly his head begin to spin, and he suddenly felt lightheaded. He lay back down and tried to process what he was seeing.

Some human had taken him in. Someone had seen his wretched form collapsed on the ice and had carried him into their house, put them into their bed, and bandaged his wounds. They had to have seen his face, and they did it anyway. He rubbed his arm where the half-remembered hand still almost seemed to grasp him.

He heard footsteps approaching from somewhere else in the building. He instantly regretted sitting up so quickly; surely his exclamation before had been heard by the resident. He reached to put up the hood of his cloak. He couldn’t help them seeing him before, but he could at least try to minimize what they saw then. The Creature realized with a start that he wasn’t wearing it. He sat up again, looked around, and saw what must have been his coat and cloak folded up on a dresser just out of reach. The footsteps were very close now. He threw himself down, head spinning, and resolved just to face away from the door.

He heard a voice speaking in a language he didn’t recognize or understand. The speaker didn’t seem afraid or angry, but he could hear them approach him. The person above him repeated some short word a few times in a firm tone. He thought maybe they were trying to get his attention. The speaker sighed, and faint overtones of irritation crept into their voice as they began to talk again. His silence was upsetting them, he realized as his heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. He was at this person’s inexplicable mercy and their charity was probably about to run out. However, revealing his face again was not going to help in that regard. He decided to just say in unsteady tones roughened from disuse,

“I’m very sorry, but I can’t understand what you’re saying.” His heart pounded. Would that be enough? Would they be upset that he didn’t know what they were talking about? 

“Oh, you’re French?” the voice said in his language. Their tone was strange to his ears – he supposed it was probably an accent of some kind – but he didn’t think there was anger there.

“I—Yes. I am.” He felt entirely off-kilter. Every conversation in the past had been largely rehearsed in his head. He had thought about every possible way that DeLacey could have responded to him. He had marshalled all of his arguments against Frankenstein long in advance. His conversation with Walton was mostly a rehashing of what he would have said had his creator caught up to him in the arctic. This was entirely new.

“Well, I’m glad you’re awake. Are you feeling better at all?” He could hear the speaker putting something down on the bedside stand. The Creature took a moment before he responded.

“The pain has not reduced, but I feel less ill than I did before,” he said.

“Ah, that’s–that’s good to hear.” He could hear the discomfort in the speaker’s voice. He wondered what about him they were bothered by. He felt very lucky that they hadn’t moved to look at his face. A few moments passed in uncomfortable silence before both began to speak at once,

“Was it you that—”

“I brought—" There was a pause and the Creature decided to let the other speak first. “I had just brought you some food, if you’re hungry.” Another surprise. He had no idea what was happening. Rather, he had no idea why it was happening to _him_. Maybe someone else had bandaged his wounds and the person he was talking to hadn’t seen him properly yet?

“Yes. Thank you,” he said. His stomach growled loudly, and it took most of his willpower to not take the food from the stand by the human. If this person hadn’t seen his face yet, then he didn’t want to put himself in danger. _Plus_ , whispered the part of him that he tried to silence, _it would be nice to indulge in the fantasy of humanity for a little while_. He thought for a moment, then asked what was on his mind.

“Were you the one who bandaged my wounds?” There, it was out. Either they had seen him properly or they hadn’t.

“Yes, you were in a bad way. The dressings will need to be changed frequently and looking at your wounds that’s probably not something you can do right now. I can take care of it when you’re done eating.” The Creature had no idea what to make of that. They had definitely seen him. They had seen more of him than anyone since the DeLaceys, who had been horrified despite being some of the kindest that humanity had ever produced. This person had seen his deformity and decided to take him into their home, treat his injuries, and prepare him food. The two of you sat in silence for another moment.

“Are you able to sit up? I can help you up if you need me to,” the speaker offered. There was tension in their voice, but he didn’t think he heard any malice. The Creature tried to think of a way to ask them very politely to please put on a blindfold, though he guessed it probably didn’t matter. There wasn’t any point hiding it. They had seen him, and no amount of wishing could undo that. He slowly sat up and turned towards the speaker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you or a loved one are considering suicide please call the National Suicide Hotline at 800-273-8255.


	3. Reader (II)

When you were younger, you were told that spiders were much more afraid of you than you were of them. That had seemed ridiculous at the time, many spiders could easily kill you and you would give them enough space not to find out which were which. There wasn’t a threat to them. You couldn’t help but think of that as the stranger’s eyes bored into you.

His face was more horrible when animated. Something about his inhumanly pale eyes and the twisting of his black lips unsettled you on top of everything you had already observed. You were afraid, but he was too; it showed on his face and you’d be willing to bet your terror showed on yours. The fact that you were both stumbling through this conversation pretending that nothing in the world were abnormal about it didn’t do anything to relieve either of your anxieties. The penny was going to drop eventually, but neither of you felt comfortable seeing how that would play out. You picked up the platter; the flimsy barrier it put between you and your inhuman guest made you feel ever-so-slightly better. You broke eye contact and said,

“I, uh, already ate because I thought you were still unconscious, but this should still be warm. Here.” You, with an odd twinge of reluctance, handed over the extra soup and sandwiches that you had made for him. You thought you saw him twitch backwards as you leaned towards him, but it was gone in a blink of an eye. He took the platter very carefully, as if he were afraid that the dishes would crumble in his hands. You noticed them trembling slightly. For a moment you saw behind the monstrous face; he was just a terrified, horribly injured man who had no idea where he was or if the stranger tending to him could be trusted not to hurt him. You wondered how many had.

You backed up and sat at the room’s small table. You considered taking the spot that put the table between you and him. You didn’t; someone had to ramp down the tension and he was still scared stiff. You turn the chair around, sit down, and clasp your hands together to hide their trembling.

You introduced yourself and there was a span of silence that seemed to last a full minute as you waited to see if your guest would reciprocate. He didn’t; he just fixed his gaze on his soup and dipped a sandwich in with a deliberate motion. That’s not what you’d consider a great sign, but fine. You decided not to pry and asked if he knew where he was.

“No, I was traveling to the far north and things…went rather poorly.” he said, his mouth twisted into a bitter expression. You explain that you were in northern Greenland, right where true land ended and the northern ice sheet began. Your location was not near any major cities, though there was a port town a couple dozen miles to the south along the coastline if he needed to get back to France. He wasn’t likely to run into any more French speakers there, so you offered to write him a note to show to ship captains explaining his situation in the local language. As you spoke you began to feel a little more comfortable, but he seemed less so.

“No, that’s not necessary,” he said “I’ll cease to trouble you shortly. I wouldn’t want to…impose…on you any longer than I must. I thank you for your kindness; it’s a rare thing.” There was something about the way that he said _cease_ that bothered you. You swallowed uncomfortably and said,

“Don’t be absurd, you’re not well. You’re lucid now, but the infection in your wounds hasn’t gone away yet. There’s no way you can even change your dressings with the state of your back. I wouldn’t dream of letting you go out in this miserable weather injured and sick.” You gave him a weak smile and looked him directly in his eyes. This time he looked away first.

“There’s no need to worry on my account. You’ve gone above and beyond what anyone would expect of you, and you can clear your conscience of concerns for my well-being. I’m sure this encounter will fade from your mind in no time at all,” he said with a distant look in his eyes. You _really_ didn’t like that. You had no idea how to proceed; was there even an acceptable way to ask a perfect stranger if they’re heading out to kill themselves? The hell with it. You decided to just go out and say it.

“Please forgive me for being so forward,” you said, “but you make it sound like you want to die out there.” Your words sounded prim and clipped as you did your best to control your voice. You wrung your hands in your lap and continued to look him in the eyes. You were scared of him, yes, but there were miles between fear and loathing; you didn’t want him dead. 

“Yes.” He said it simply, without apology or fanfare. You paused for a moment, not having expected him to respond quite so bluntly or honestly. For an insane moment you considered feigning offense that he’d throw away the hard work you spent nursing him back to health so callously. You immediately shut the idea down, of course. Trying to find the right words to convince him not to kill himself brought to mind a favorite saying of one of your husband’s gambling buddies: _God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the tenacity to change what I may, and the good luck to not fuck up too often. Amen._

“I’m sorry that you’re hurting so much,” you said. You watched and tried to gauge his reaction. His breath hitched and his eyes widened slightly in surprise. Had he been expecting you to accept that? To welcome it?”

“I—um. Thank you.” He spoke in a faltering staccato, eyes glued firmly to his lap. Very surprised, then. You pushed a little farther.

“Would you be willing to tell me why?” He gave you a strange look. You looked back. He sighed and began to speak, his voice steadier.

“I am alone and abhorred. I have enough misery in my heart to last a dozen lifetimes and would rather see my story to its end before I acquire or create more of it.”

“It sounds like you’re feeling very unloved and isolated.” He nodded and his gaze fixed onto your eyes. His expression was still unreadable, but you thought you could see his eyes beginning to mist over. He blinked hard and looked away. You continued,

“I can imagine that must be hard. Loneliness is one of the worst things to live through. I’m here to talk to if you want.” You could feel his mood change. He shut his eyes tight and said with an undercurrent of frustration and anger,

“Stop. Don’t make promises that you would regret being forced to keep. And what would you know of loneliness. You’re _married_.” He spat the last word out like poison. Your lips pursed and your fingers came to the wedding band on your right ring finger. For a moment you are completely, utterly floored.

“You mean this?” You ask him, voice having fallen deadly quiet.

“Yes, obviously.” He said, staring you down. You held your palm up and wiggled your fingers slightly.

“It’s on my _right_ hand,” you said evenly, though your jaw wanted to clench shut.

“What of it?” he asks.

“It’s the wrong hand. People who are married wear it on the left. People who have been widowed wear it on the right. My husband’s four years in the ground.” You could hear a pin drop. He looked away and you could see him warring between digging in his heels and apologizing. At that moment you weren’t in the mood to handle either. You stood up and this time he flinched hard. You paused, even though you were angry you certainly didn’t want him to be afraid of you. You counted to three in your head before you took his platter and walked out the door. “I’ll be in to change your bandages once I’ve cleared my head” you said just before the door shut behind you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hang in there guys, things are going to start looking up next chapter.
> 
> Also: I shamelessly stole the corrupted Serenity prayer from Stephen King. Apologies!


	4. The Creature (II)

As the door clicked shut, the Creature slumped down onto the pillows behind him, never mind the pain. His eyes fixed on the ceiling as the implications of this conversation washed over him. He had been given a chance. Kindness. Sympathy. Everything he had not even dared to _dream_ of since the DeLaceys. He had tossed it all aside in a fit of anger. It seemed that God had deigned not only to extend his misery by prolonging his life, but also by giving him this rare opportunity to be treated as a human and letting him ruin it with his own hands. He allowed himself a few minutes to mourn before he bit back the emotions and tried to figure out how to proceed.

He was still very weak, but he knew it would be unwise to stay any longer. If the human now saw him for what he was, then he needed to leave immediately. He was doomed to be hated, and even Frankenstein – he who had most reason to care for him – had only failed to kill him due to how very careful the Creature was when luring him north. Someone who had no reason at all to care and had had their olive branch spat upon would surely hate him enough to get help from the village to end him once and for all. _They will lash out just as I did when my kindness was rejected_ , he mused with regretful anguish. For a moment he considered staying in the house and letting the mob take care of him, but he decided against it. He would rather his last moments not be marred by a jeering crowd. His thoughts were interrupted by the shutting of a door elsewhere in the house. He supposed that was his cue to leave; regardless of whether or not they had left the building, the next room would be clear for him to move through.

He sat up again, regretting having lain down straight onto his wounds. He pulled himself to the edge of the bed, dragging covers behind him. The creature stood up gingerly and, putting his hand carefully on the nightstand, took a few tentative steps toward the dresser. The world spun around him – he would have to take this _very_ slowly. He pulled on his cloak one-handed. He didn’t take his coat; there was no chance he could pull that on without falling. The Creature began to slowly make his way to the door, supporting himself on furniture and walls whenever he could. He opened the door as quietly as possible and stepped out.

The parlor had once been nicely furnished. Many things had clearly been repaired; there were chairs where one leg was in a different style and patched upholstery. Chairs in direct sunlight had been bleached noticeably lighter than others that were supposed to match. However, it was comfortable and well-kept. There were several doors – this house was much larger than that of the DeLaceys – but the one in front of him seemed to lead out. He staggered towards it and pulled it open while leaning heavily on the knob.

When he stepped out onto the porch, he immediately noticed the cold and the sound of creaking wood. He turned and saw his host sitting on a rocking chair, and for a moment they both stared at each other like deer caught in the headlights. After a few seconds, the Creature faltered, stumbled, and gripped the doorjamb. The spell was broken. He tried to figure out what to say but was interrupted.

“What are you doing out of—” they started and cut themselves off, and though the Creature was still seeing stars, he couldn’t help but notice how their face paled. He couldn’t understand it; they had fulfilled their obligation as a good Samaritan just by taking him in in the first place, and they could now be free of him. Maybe some sense of politeness had stopped them from outright agreeing, but they had to know it as well as he did. So why continue like this? To torment him? But then, how would they fake a physiological response like blanching? His mind continued to wheel, and his face formed an anguished, confused expression. During the pause, his host moved closer.

“Hey, please! Just wait a moment,” they said and reached out to him. He waited for a blow that didn’t fall, their hand instead coming to rest gently on his arm. His heart stopped. His entire mind shut down for a moment; he was completely dumbstruck. The sensation was so alien to him; while he had a vague memory of someone holding onto him to try to get him inside, it had the quality of a half-forgotten dream. This was real and immediate. The gentle warmth of another’s hand was something he had fantasized about, but as he learned more about humanity it was relegated to an unattainable fantasy. Yet, this was freely given, with his host seemingly unaware of the significance of the act. As his head spun, they spoke again.

“Please. Just—don’t. Please don’t do it,” they said with a desperation in their voice that he had heard in his own so many times. He snapped back to reality.

“And what would you have me do? I’ve lived too long in agony. It’s time,” he said. His lips pressed into a line and he watched his host’s face carefully, trying to understand what was driving their actions.

“Suicide, it can’t give you _relief_. If there is a god, then it’s a mortal sin and you will be _damned_. If not,” their breath hitched, “then you will feel nothing at all. Neither will help—” he cut them off.

“I’ve been damned since I received this wretched spark of life. Continuing onward will only prolong my misery. At least in Hell I won’t be tormented by the hope of salvation.” That made them go quiet for a moment, their face wrenching in mirrored anguish. They reached to put their other hand on his left arm. Though they were nowhere near his size or strength, he felt inexplicably held in place by the incomprehensible, impossible gesture of kindness.

“Please, then, just wait to decide at least! I don’t know what you’ve endured, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t ever receive better.” They pleaded. “Just – at least wait until you’re healed. Please.” _So that really was it,_ he mused.

“What difference does it make, whether I go now or then? It’s not on you,” his voice softened, “and no one can fault you for anything I do from now on. You’ve done your duty, and I truly am grateful. It means more than I can say that I received kindness at least once during my wretched existence. You can let me go without any guilt.”

“Duty be damned!” they snapped, and their unexpected response stunned the Creature. “I know it’s not my fault, but that doesn’t mean that I want you to die. I’d be saying this regardless of whether or not I felt any obligation for you to begin with. Just because you hate the hand you’ve been dealt, doesn’t mean that other people can’t value human life!” they said; their hands pressed tighter as their voice rose.

“Then you can still sleep easy tonight,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. Surprise overtook their face for a moment, then their eyes narrowed.

“You’re ignoring my point,” they said. He looked down at them sadly. 

“Had anyone else shown me a hundredth of this concern, I wouldn’t be doing this. But it’s human nature to hate me. I do appreciate this, but I have to be going.” Though he said this, the Creature didn’t move and allowed his host’s hands to stay firmly in place.

“If you want to be treated with kindness, then stop rejecting mine!” they said, also unmoving. The Creature said nothing, but a thought resonated that he didn’t dare say: _I don’t want to watch you grow to hate me too._ Both paused for a moment.

“If you don’t want to be lonely, don’t reject people trying to help you. If you don’t want to be miserable, don’t see to it that you’re damned. Please, just stay here until you’re healed. I can’t promise that you’ll be happy, but I can say that if you stay here you won’t be lonely or hated. If, once you’re feeling better, you still think that life isn’t worth living I won’t stand in your way. But please give yourself one last chance.”

The Creature was so overwhelmed he was almost sickened. It didn’t make any sense; none of this made any sense. Even the fact that anyone would willingly touch him was inconceivable, but they even seemed to genuinely want him to live. _Maybe_ , he thought for an insane moment, _maybe they might start to care for me._ He immediately rejected the thought; they hadn’t said that, and it would be setting himself up to fail if he believed it. But they did seem to genuinely want him to stay. Damn it all, he wanted to stay too. He wanted so badly to have someone to talk to. He had dreamed, and dreamed, and dreamed of something like this happening to him. What he’d say, how they’d smile when he helped them, the sound of their laughter. It was everything he’d wanted since he’d learned of the existence of humans. However, he knew that every moment of happiness he gained here would be ripped out of his chest when they inevitably realized just what it was that they had brought into their home. Was it worth it? Could he risk hope now when every avenue had failed him? 

He wavered on the precipice between hope and despair, but again it was the sensation of touch that brought him back to reality. He had begun to shiver in the cold; he hadn’t noticed during the tense conversation. His host removed their hands and he acutely felt the frigid air where their hands had been, but they simply grabbed the folds of his cloak and pulled them around him more tightly. Their hands continued to clutch the fabric after they finished adjusting, as if they were afraid to let go. The Creature made up his mind.

“I’ll do it,” he said. “I’ll stay.”


	5. Reader (III)

The full gravity of your situation didn’t hit you until after you helped your guest back into his bed. You were cutting cloth for new dressings when the realization hit. You had taken in a perfect stranger who claimed to be inhuman. Worse, you were inclined to believe him. You still felt uneasy in his presence, though sympathy tended to outweigh that when the two of you spoke. You tried to put it out of your mind. He was a person who needed help; while you had hesitated to help some people in the past, it was never over something out of their control. And furthermore, you always did it. No matter how it pained you, no matter how much you knew you may regret it later. You turned your thoughts away from the young Jacobins, then from your husband in turn. You wrapped the bandages around the jar you had commandeered to store the healing tincture you had made and tied it off with a small cord. Best not to waste whatever daylight you had up in this thrice-damned country.

You knocked gently on the door before you came in this time; now that he was awake there was no excuse for barging into what you supposed was now his room. It took a moment for him to respond,

“Please come in,” he said in a hushed voice. You opened the door and stepped in. He looked terrified, but he turned to face you when you came in. Progress, you supposed. Being offered a place to stay wouldn’t fix much on its own, but you felt a little more hopeful seeing that he at least trusted you enough to not hide his face. As you approached, he seemed to freeze up again. You stopped and reconsidered your strategy. You said in the most conciliatory voice you could manage,

“Alright, so here’s what we need to do. Your old bandages have to be removed, then I need to check on your wounds and reapply the ointment,” you raised the jar “before I apply new dressings. This is not going to be pleasant, but it has to be done. Otherwise your infection _will_ continue to get worse. Are you feeling up to it right now?” You felt like you were trying to calm a frightened animal.

“I am,” your guest said.

“Alright. I thi­nk the easiest way to do this would be for you to sit close to the edge of the bed while I stand on a chair behind you.” You moved to grab a chair and he reluctantly moved to face away from you. You pushed it into place and climbed on top of it. You were surprised again at just how tall this man was, but you were now in what you hoped was a workable position. You could see how every muscle of his body was in sharp relief, his hands balled up into fists in his lap.

“Okay,” you said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I want you to tell me to stop if it gets to be too much, alright?” You waited a moment for him to respond, and he did so with a slight, measured incline of his head. _Very well then,_ you thought.  
“I’m going to let you know what I’m doing back here, so I don’t give you any unwelcome surprises. Okay?” This time he didn’t respond at all.

“I’m just going to pull your hair to the side of your head and tie it back so that I don’t risk trapping any hair between the wounds and the bandages,” you said, untying the cord. You swept his hair over his left shoulder and you could see him shiver as your fingers brushed against the nape of his neck. You gently tied it off and continued.

“I’m going to untie the knot on the old dressing now,” you said, and pulled the fabric apart with deft fingers. “I’m going to have to start removing the bandages. This – I’m not going to sugarcoat it – is going to hurt. The bandages will be stuck to the wounds, so removing them won’t be pleasant. However, it would hurt worse if I pulled it all off at once, so I’m going to go slowly. If you want me to slow down further or take a break, _please_ let me know.” He nodded again. You gently took the loose end of the fabric and counted down from three before you started to pull as gently as you could.

He hissed and slightly flinched away, which pulled more of the dressing off. His hands balled up the covers and you could almost hear his teeth grind. You paused for a moment and wondered if you should ask if he needed to stop. You don’t know if he’d tell you even if he did; he seemed to think that you’d resent any small mercies you gave him. Well, you could only trust him to be honest about his pain tolerance. You kept going.

It was slow, painstaking work. He kept his reactions better under control for the rest of the removal, but you could tell it was agonizing. Every flinch felt like a stab to the heart; you wished there were a way to do this without hurting him. He never did tell you to stop, though. When you reached the end of it, you both were a little shaky. 

“Good job,” you said soothingly, “I know that was difficult. The worst is over now.” You sat down on the chair. “I’m going to sit down, okay? I think we both need a moment.” You chuckled a little weakly.

“Alright,” he whispered and slumped forward slightly. Well, good to see that he was talking again at least. The two of you sat in silence for a moment, then you twisted around to get a better look at his back. It was a mess. The burns he had received probably would have healed well on their own given proper care and rest. He clearly had given them neither. The burns had opened in places from times he must have needed his full range of motion. One of these areas was a than the rest of the wound and swollen: you had seen worse infections, but it still wasn’t pretty. Your ointment would help treat it, but it really was better for staving off infection to begin with. You wished you could have taken a look at it sooner.

“Okay,” you said reluctantly, “are you ready to keep going?” He didn’t respond immediately, but after a moment he managed,

“Yes, I am.” The tension was thick in his voice. You kneel on the chair this time, not really needing the boost to your height for this.

“Alright. I’m going to put some ointment on your back. It’s soothing and I cooled it outside, so this shouldn’t be as bad.” He nodded as you said this but didn’t untense his muscles at all. That was fair, you supposed. Again, you counted down before you began to touch him. This did go easier: you could apply the ointment without applying any real pressure. He began to relax a little as you did this, but he still made small grunts of pain occasionally. When you were nearly done, however, you forgot yourself and rested your left hand on his upper arm. His breath hitched and he twisted around to look at you.

“I—sorry if you weren’t comfortable with me doing that!” You sputtered. Oh God, you were fucking it up. You didn’t want to lose whatever trust you were building! 

“No!” he said, equal panic in his voice. “No, I don’t mind! I just wondered why you were doing that? And before, when we were outside, you did it then too,” he seemed inexplicably desperate.

“I just thought it would be comforting. I’m so sorry; I knew you were nervous about being touched, but I just _wasn’t thinking_. I didn’t mean to overstep like that!”

“No, I—” he paused for a moment “You didn’t,” he said in a small voice.

“Oh, okay.” You choked out. You tried hard to think of something better to say than that, but your head seemed empty of everything helpful. He began to curl into himself again, and you knew that you needed to nip whatever this was in the bud immediately.

“Hey, hey. I’m sorry. I just was afraid that I freaked you out.” You put your hand back, and his breathing momentarily stopped. The two of you fell silent, and just before you were about to break the silence, he spoke.

“You don’t have to force yourself to do that,” he said softly, no longer facing you.

“I’m not!” you protested. He was very, very quiet. 

“If this arrangement is to go on, I would like to please beg your honesty and that you don’t force yourself into doing anything. Though I truly appreciate how kindly you’ve treated me, I’m sure that in the long run continuing like this would just lead to resentment over having to lie to me and having to do things that you would never want to do. I don’t want that.” His voice had a trembling sadness to it. You rose from your chair and came around to sit on the other side of the bed. He knelt there with his head bowed and fists curled into the blankets, seemingly unable to look you in the eyes.

“Alright, I will be honest with you. Look at me,” you said to him, and his gaze came up to meet yours as if dragged. You felt the cold tension in your stomach that came whenever you looked into what you still struggled to see as anything but a predator’s eyes.

“I won’t pretend that you don’t frighten me. Your admission that you’re not human scares me too.” He began to speak, but you shushed him. “Let me finish. You can respond once I’ve said my piece. I am scared, but that doesn’t mean I want you to hurt or be afraid. I can tell that you’ve had a shit life, that you haven’t had a lot of people treat you kindly. I don’t want to be one of those people. I have no desire to be any less kind to you than I would to anyone else. That’s not because I feel duty-bound to spare your feelings from my true thoughts. Those _are_ my true thoughts.” You put your hands on his. “Yes, I’m afraid, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t want you to be comfortable and happy here. It doesn’t mean that I don’t have sympathy, or that I’m forcing myself to treat you well. I’m _happy_ to treat you well. As for the fear, I’ll get over it – it’s a ridiculous prejudice. And wrong. Logically, I know I don’t need to be afraid of you. Eventually the rest of my brain will catch up.” You finished with a small smile. 

He stared at you with an expression too full of emotion to read, but his eyes were brimming with tears. His hands shook beneath yours. He tried to speak, but he burst into gut-wrenching sobs before he could get a word out. You moved closer to him, your legs nearly touching his. You reached to wipe away his tears, and he flinched involuntarily as he always did when he saw a hand coming toward him. However, as soon as your hand touched his face he melted into the gentle touch. You kept your hand there and moved the other to his upper arm, gently rubbing it with your fingers. He reached up and, with a feather-light touch, cupped the hand on his face with both of his. The two of you stayed like that for a long time.


	6. The Creature (III)

The creature had no idea how much time elapsed while he sat there with his host. Everything else in the world faded away; there wasn’t a single thing which could be more important than that one moment of bliss. To be given such kind words and to have his tears wiped away by a sympathetic hand was more than he ever could have asked for, certainly more than he deserved. He was no longer so ignorant of the wider world that he didn’t recognize his own wretchedness, but for some reason unknown to him he was receiving some of the kindness that was never intended for him. A happiness greater than any he had known since discovering humanity stirred within his breast, and he relaxed further into the gentle touch of this impossible companion. If they really meant any of it, how long he could hold onto this, whether he’d recover when it was taken from him – he put all these things from his mind. In that moment he just allowed himself to forget a lifetime of suffering and feel his desire for companionship satisfied.

Eventually, the host shifted. “I’m sorry, but my legs are getting pins and needles,” they said with a slight chuckle, and withdrew in order to find a more comfortable position. The Creature felt the loss immensely, but momentarily their hand returned.

“I think I got some of the ointment on your face. Sorry about that” They apologized hastily as they wiped away whatever had been left on his face.

“It’s fine. I don’t mind at all,” he said, and noticed that their face had begun to redden.

“So,” his host said, their voice seeming a little stilted “We should probably finish up with your back.” There was hardly a thing in the world that the Creature would have liked to do less than that. He sighed and said,

“I suppose so.” They painfully pulled themselves to their feet, and as they did so he heard what he suspected to be profanity in their native tongue. He allowed them to bandage his back, painful as it was. While it hurt, to be cared for when injured was another mercy that he had never experienced before. He held that knowledge close and it sustained him through the pain of the procedure. _What a strange person,_ he thought, _to be able to bring themselves to aid me and soothe my loneliness._ He called out their name, turning to look at them.

“Thank you. I don’t know how or why you can bring yourself to do this, but it matters more than I could ever say to be able to receive such kindness.” His host appeared stunned, and for a moment they just looked at him as their flush crept out to their ears.

“You really mean that.” his host said quietly. Something in their voice sounded very tight. “I haven’t—I just did what anyone would do.”

“No, you really didn’t. Not one person in my entire wretched life has ever shown me one sliver of kindness. I am abhorred wherever I go. I—” his words came more rapidly as he turned to face his host, “I lack the human prerogative to compassion and sympathy. Your kind words and caring gestures are the utmost of magnanimity because you have looked beyond my outward appearance, which has been an insurmountable barrier to everyone else that I’ve ever met. If there are any words that can express how much this means to me, I have not learned them.”

“You’ve really never had anyone else treat you kindly?” his host asked. The Creature shook his head and said in a broken voice,

“I am a monster, why should any human condescend to spend time with someone as wretched as I? Precious few have overcome their innate disgust enough to accept my continued existence. I have never before encountered someone who could somehow sublimate their horror in order to show me kindness.” The Creature didn’t know what he could expect his host to do upon hearing this, though he feared they would realize that they were making a mistake and stop. After all, if they had somehow been unaware of his deformity before, having him explain how all other humans had immediately understood it to be reason enough to shun and abhor him may cause them to reconsider.

“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry that you’ve been treated that way. I promise that I’m not going to hate you or hurt you.” He was amazed to hear his host beginning to choke up. They really seemed to sympathize with the torments he had received, even though they knew he was a monster. _So, this is it,_ he thought, _this is what it’s like to receive compassion._ He was overwhelmed. So much had happened today; it felt like weeks had passed.

“Thank you. _Thank you._ I am forever in your debt.” He could hear the exhaustion in his own voice, and his host looked at him sadly and said,

“There’s no need for that. This isn’t a transaction, and I’m not asking you for anything. Just try to feel better, okay?”

“Okay.” He repeated. His host gathered their things and began to move towards the door.

“Wait!” He called out. They stopped, their hand coming to rest on the doorknob.

“What is it?” His host asked.

“Could you please stay? I know that I’m asking a lot, but I just,” he paused and struggled to spit the words out, “I just don’t want to be alone.” Internally, he chastised himself for asking for more. They were already going above and beyond, and in any case, they would be back tomorrow to change his wounds again. He had no right to ask for this. What in the world was he thinking?

“Of course,” he was surprised to hear his host say.

“Sorry I – I shouldn’t have asked for that. Emotionally I don’t think I’m even in a state to keep conversing. I’m sorry, feel free to go.” He regretted the words as soon as they fell from his lips, but not more than he regretted the request.

“Well, I could get a book and sit with you? And I could read to you if that’s something you’d like. No need for you to talk if you don’t feel up to it.”

“I would like that very much.” He sat there stunned but found himself nodding off regardless. He really was exhausted. He jolted awake again when his host returned with the book. They sat at the chair that still sat beside the bed and began to flip around, as if looking for a specific passage. When they found it, they let out a satisfied hum before they began to read.:

"No man is an island,  
Entire of itself.  
Each is a piece of the continent,  
A part of the main.  
If a clod be washed away by the sea,  
Europe is the less.  
As well as if a promontory were.  
As well as if a manor of thine own  
Or of thine friend's were.  
Each man's death diminishes me,  
For I am involved in mankind.  
Therefore, send not to know  
For whom the bell tolls,  
It tolls for thee.”

The poem struck something deep inside the Creature. He wished that could be true for him, but he was uniquely and utterly uninvolved in mankind. Then his breathing hitched as a realization dawned on him. Maybe not anymore. He was being treated well by this strange being. In this moment he _was_ tied to humanity, if only by the finest thread. And, well, he knew that his host had surely picked this poem knowing full well how it would be received. He leaned back and pulled the blankets around himself as his host began to flip around to find a second poem. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to hope for the first time in a long, long time. He leaned back and tried to wait for the next poem, but he was fast asleep before they found it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem is "For Whom the Bell Tolls" by John Donne.


End file.
